Gus
Gus died this afternoon, a little after four, on the kitchen floor, on his own…
saved Oct 22, 2018 20:30date Oct 22, 2018
3linked records
1named, not linked
What it says
Gus died this afternoon, a little after four, on the kitchen floor, on his own blanket. He was thirteen years and two months old.
Dr. Aylward came to the house as she said she would, with a bag and a young assistant, and knelt down on the linoleum in her good slacks. She examined him properly and said what we knew. Then she explained what she would do and what we would see, in order.
R. sat on the floor with his back against the cupboard, and Gus put his head on R.'s boot, as he has every evening of his life when R. came in from the garage. I had his ears. The first injection made him sleepy. He sighed, a long one, the sigh he gives when he has finally got the whole length of the couch. The second was very quick. Dr. Aylward listened with the stethoscope for a time and then said, "He's gone."
Nobody moved. The refrigerator came on.
R. said, "Good dog," in his ordinary voice, twice. Then he got up, with some difficulty, and went out to the garage, and I heard the big door go up.
They took him with them, wrapped in the blanket. Dr. Aylward stopped at the door and told me that he had had a better thirteen years than most people get, and that it was a kindness.
We got him in October 2005 from a farm near Dodgeville, the last of the litter, the one nobody had picked because he sat in the corner. Kate was home from the university that weekend and named him, for no reason she would ever give. He was afraid of the vacuum cleaner and of nothing else.
His dish is still by the door. I have not picked it up, and I notice R. stepped around it.
I do not want to write more than this.
Name a person or thing it links to · Name one it names without a link
Fields
| Date | 2018-10-22 20:30 |
|---|
Linked to
3 records, 1 more named→ the link goes from this record; ← it comes from the other one. These are the edges the build gives the app. A name in the text is only a match on the words and is never treated as a link.
Comments
0
Comments are added in the local viewer; this copy is read-only.
In the app
missing
From the app's own code (viewer/app_export.sh): Not made yet: run viewer/app_export.sh retired-couple.
One step out
As the app receives it
1
The graph nodes the build makes for it: the record, and its phones, emails, addresses, pictures and files.
{
"$type": "n_type_journal_entry",
"id": "n_journal_2018_10_22",
"createdAt": "1540240200000",
"date": "2018-10-22T20:30:00.000Z",
"body": "Gus died this afternoon, a little after four, on the kitchen floor, on his own blanket. He was thirteen years and two months old.\n\nDr. Aylward came to the house as she said she would, with a bag and a young assistant, and knelt down on the linoleum in her good slacks. She examined him properly and said what we knew. Then she explained what she would do and what we would see, in order.\n\nR. sat on the floor with his back against the cupboard, and Gus put his head on R.'s boot, as he has every evening of his life when R. came in from the garage. I had his ears. The first injection made him sleepy. He sighed, a long one, the sigh he gives when he has finally got the whole length of the couch. The second was very quick. Dr. Aylward listened with the stethoscope for a time and then said, \"He's gone.\"\n\nNobody moved. The refrigerator came on.\n\nR. said, \"Good dog,\" in his ordinary voice, twice. Then he got up, with some difficulty, and went out to the garage, and I heard the big door go up.\n\nThey took him with them, wrapped in the blanket. Dr. Aylward stopped at the door and told me that he had had a better thirteen years than most people get, and that it was a kindness.\n\nWe got him in October 2005 from a farm near Dodgeville, the last of the litter, the one nobody had picked because he sat in the corner. Kate was home from the university that weekend and named him, for no reason she would ever give. He was afraid of the vacuum cleaner and of nothing else.\n\nHis dish is still by the door. I have not picked it up, and I notice R. stepped around it.\n\nI do not want to write more than this.\n"
}
Source
personas/retired-couple/records/journal-2016-2019.yaml:522
- id: journal-2018-10-22
kind: journal_entry
about: [gus, ray, dr-aylward]
date: 2018-10-22 20:30
body: |
Gus died this afternoon, a little after four, on the kitchen floor, on his own blanket. He was thirteen years and two months old.
Dr. Aylward came to the house as she said she would, with a bag and a young assistant, and knelt down on the linoleum in her good slacks. She examined him properly and said what we knew. Then she explained what she would do and what we would see, in order.
R. sat on the floor with his back against the cupboard, and Gus put his head on R.'s boot, as he has every evening of his life when R. came in from the garage. I had his ears. The first injection made him sleepy. He sighed, a long one, the sigh he gives when he has finally got the whole length of the couch. The second was very quick. Dr. Aylward listened with the stethoscope for a time and then said, "He's gone."
Nobody moved. The refrigerator came on.
R. said, "Good dog," in his ordinary voice, twice. Then he got up, with some difficulty, and went out to the garage, and I heard the big door go up.
They took him with them, wrapped in the blanket. Dr. Aylward stopped at the door and told me that he had had a better thirteen years than most people get, and that it was a kindness.
We got him in October 2005 from a farm near Dodgeville, the last of the litter, the one nobody had picked because he sat in the corner. Kate was home from the university that weekend and named him, for no reason she would ever give. He was afraid of the vacuum cleaner and of nothing else.
His dish is still by the door. I have not picked it up, and I notice R. stepped around it.
I do not want to write more than this.